Trapped
by NeonFaces
Summary: Death is simple. Death is the point at which we cease to exist. Yet, somehow, not so simple in real life. Bella Swan doesn't want to die. She wants to live, to love, to laugh. But with her luck running out, will she reach the future she so badly wants?


**Okay so this isnt really that twilighty, sorry for that. It's more of a crossover between "Before I Die" and "Twilight" but there are no others stories for before i die and i'm a noob. It's just Bella I'm afraid, but read please anyway, it's quite good.**

An endless mile; a bus wheel turning  
A friend to share the lonesome times  
A handshake and a sip of wine  
So say it loud and let it ring  
We are all a part of everything  
The future, present and the past  
Fly on proud bird  
You're free at last.

Charlie Daniels, written en route to a friend's funeral.

**Trapped**

Trapped. That's how I feel in this close little treatment room. I stare hard at the bland, pale blinds. Taking in their texture, how each stitch of the material is perfectly aligned. Looking anywhere but at the nurse.

Dad squeezes my fingers, I glance at him, and he smiles reassuringly. It doesn't reach his eyes, though. Grey from worry, they have a depth of sadness to them, pained and troubled beyond their years. I study his face intently, as a distraction. The curves and contours of his strong jaw, wide forehead and the deep, aged lines standing out in his pale skin. The creases and bags around his eyes are so prominent now. He looks so old. When did that happen?

But I know when that happened. Four years ago. When I was diagnosed with my illness.

"All done." Nurse Kelly slowly slides the needle out of my vein, and wipes the area with an antiseptic cloth. She carefully transfers the blood to a little tube, and I look away quickly. I hate blood. Especially my own. God knows, I've seen enough of it in the last few years.

The nurse scribbles my name on the tube, as Mum enters the room holding a bottle of orange juice. Her writing is small and neat, _Bella Swan_, then the date, _05/05/05_.

"Here you go," Mum passes me the bottle of orange juice, then turns to Kelly,

"So what are we looking for this time?" she asks taking Dad's hand.

"Disease in the Peripheral blood." My parents glance at each other,

"So if you find the disease, what…what would that mean, exactly?" The nurse freezes momentarily, then makes herself very busy tidying away the syringe to cover it up.

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it shall we?" She tells them brightly. Unfortunately for Kelly, Dad is in a persistent mood.

"What would it mean?" She squirms, and looks around for an excuse to leave. Sighing deeply, I decide to save her.

"It will mean I'm going to die. My body will be riddled with cancer, and I'll have a matter of weeks left to live." That shuts them up.

"Oh." Dad says softly, putting his arms around my Mum, as tears spill down her cheeks. I watch them, clear and wet, drip-dripping down her chin and onto the floor. Drip, drip. Keep crying, Mum, keep crying; maybe if I can count fifty pearly tears, everything will be okay. Maybe I'll live.

******

"I'm Nadia." I look up slowly, dragging my eyes away from the orange juice I've been studying for the last half hour. The girl standing before me is about seventeen, the same age as me, and she has her shaved head wrapped in a floral headscarf.

"Bella." I reply dully, ignoring the thin, pale hand she offers. Lowering her arm she shrugs, and takes the seat next to me. I turn to glare at her. Did I invite her to sit with me? No, I did not. Maybe if I totally blank her she'll leave me and my orange juice alone.

"So, what have you got, then?" Evidently not. She seems to want to _talk_ to me. Great.

"Acute Lymphoblastic Leukaemia." I decide to be polite. But I'm not making friends with her. I've learnt never to make friends with people who are dying.

"I have Renal Cell Carcinomas," looking at me out of the corner of her eye, she smiles at my blank expression, "Kidney cancer." She pulls a slight face, "They reckon my survival odds are about eighty-three percent, so pretty good. What about you?"

I'm not really listening anymore. I'm back to studying my orange juice, apparently it has thirty-four calories in it.

"What about you?" Floral headscarf prompts.

"What about me?" I sigh, looking at her again.

"What are your odds? Of survival?" She looks at me with such an interested expression, that I almost believe she cares. Almost.

"Zilch." I reply, before swigging my thirty-four calorie juice. It slides, cold and acidic down my throat. But I don't taste it. I don't taste anything anymore.

"Zilch?" The poor girl looks so confused.

"Yeah. Zilch. Zero, nought, nil, nothing." I concentrate on screwing the cap onto my orange juice, as tight as I can. That's it; turn it a little more, just a little more. Go on, coax it round again, you can do it. If you do, maybe you'll be okay. Maybe you'll live.

Mum and Dad emerge from Doctor Saint's office, closely followed by Mr Saint, himself. I used to love having him as my doctor, when I was young and naïve, I believed he _was_ a saint, and would surely make me better. But now I know, he's just another inconsequential man, who can no more save me than Nadia's headscarf can.

"The blood's been sent straight to the labs as a priority case, so we should have the results in a few hours." My parents nod. Mum is holding Dad's hand in one of hers, and a scrunched up tissue in the other. Why does she cry all the time? Seriously, she has no right to cry, she does nothing to help. No hospital appointments, no mad dashes to the shops for my latest strange craving, no late nights spent mopping up my frequent nose bleeds. Dad does all that. My Dad. The hero. _He_ is the one who should cry. He should let the tears flow because all his hard work will go to waste. All his effort has come to nothing. I'm still going to die.

"So Bella, what would you like to do while we wait for your results?" Dad asks, with a very forced, authentic smile. What _do_ I want to do? There are so many things I want to do before I die. Like, run a marathon, climb a mountain, go skydiving. All the things my body hasn't the strength for. I want to visit America or Spain. No, _and_ Spain. In fact, I want to travel the whole world. I want to get married, have kids, get a job, live. I want to live before I die.

I want to taste raindrops, and use a paper shredder. I want to climb so high up a tree I'll be too scared to get down again and a handsome prince will have to come up and rescue me, before falling madly and irrevocably in love with me, and living happily ever after.

All silly little things. Yet, such vital things. Is it not the small things that make up a world? Are they not the tiny grains of sand in the cement that holds the bigger picture together?

So many foods, as well. So many I'll miss! I want to eat pizza, with every topping imaginable. I want to eat cashews and cheese-strings, mint humbugs, rainbow drops, honey, prawns, fast-food…

"Mini-milks," I tell them, "I want a mini-milk." Dad beams with pride and joy; it's been so long since I asked for food.

"A mini-milk it is, then!"

******

I'm so glad when we get outside; away from the cheap disinfectant of hospital corridors that barely conceals the underlying reek of vomit, blood and death.

"I'm just praying the results will be negative." Mum comments quietly, her voice breaking twice.

"I don't," I tell them absently, watching a bird settle on a bare tree, bleached bone-white by the sunlight.

My parents stop dead, in the middle of the car park,

"What did you say?" I sigh and groan inwardly, as I slowly turn to face them. Why did I even mention it?

"At least if they're positive the lumbar punctures will stop."

"Oh, come on dear, they're not that bad." Mum scolds, clearly upset by my offhand remark.

"Not that bad? Not that bad! How would you like it if I shoved a bloody great needle into your spine? Then you wouldn't be saying _they're not that bad!_" How would she know anyway? She's never even been to one of mine, let alone had a lumbar puncture herself! She makes Dad do that sort of thing. Maybe that's why his eyes are so old. From seeing me in pain.

"Language, Bella." Dad warns. Sighing again I turn back to the bird. A single pure-white feather drifts lazily towards the ground, catching on a breeze that ruffles my short, fuzzy hair, and caresses my thin skeletal face.

I wish I was that feather. Floating on the wind, without a care in the world. Maybe when I die, I'll come back as a feather. Alone and free for eternity. I'm comforted by that thought. But only a little. A very little. I don't want to die.

******

Sitting in the dusty light streaming through the café's window, a mini-milk in my hand. I haven't taken a single bite yet, and it's starting to melt, dripping down my hand and onto my jeans. I feel hot, and kind of woozy. I can hear the blood pumping in my ears, and a headache is forming behind my eyes. I want to massage my temples but that damn mini-milk is in the way. Why did I even want it? Looking at it makes me feel a little sick, now.

"Don't you want that?" Dad asks,

"No." The word is hard to force out of my mouth, it seems to get stuck in my throat and my tongue feels like lead. Getting up, we throw the ice-cream away, and head outside. Maybe the fresh air will help.

But out on the street, I feel even worse - dizzy, sick, and I sway slightly on my feet.

"Bella? Are you okay?" Dad places a cool hand on my forehead.

"Jesus! She's burning up!" I frown at Dad, but he keeps fading in and out of focus. I'm falling. Why am I falling? The pavement is hard on my elbows as I hit it.

"Shit!" I look at Dad in confusion; Dad never swears. I can't really see him, though. Why can't I see him? Dad? Then it all goes black.

"Come on. Bella! Stay with me, baby, stay with me!" Dad clutches my hand tightly. Too tightly. I want to tell him this, but my mouth won't work. I want to tell him I love him, too. I want to tell him _of course._ _Of course _I'll stay with you. I love you. But he's fading again. I desperately try too keep hold of reality, of him, but they slip through my grasp like water. Is this dying? I hope not. I don't want to die. Not yet.

Memories flood my mind.

A girl in a floral headscarf.  
A pale hand, extended to me.  
A dark haired nurse with a needle.  
Tears drip-dripping onto the floor.

"What's wrong with her?"

"She has an infection; we just need to find the right antibiotics." Doctor Saint tells him.

A bottle of orange juice.  
Thirty-four calories.  
A mini-milk, dripping down my hand.  
A little tube, full of blood.

"Why isn't she responding?"

"We still haven't found the right drugs. I'm sorry Swan, we're doing our best."

My Dad's eyes, pained and old.  
Orange juice, sliding, cold and acidic, down my throat.  
A nurse writing on a label, _Bella Swan_, then the date, _05/05/05_.

05/05/05.

That's the date I'll die. My last day. Funny. Five's my lucky number.

Figures crowd around me, but their outlines flicker and shift. A nurse pokes her head around the door,

"Her results are back. They're positive." I hear Dad's choking sobs. He's crying. After all these dry-eyed years he's crying. I want to tell him not to. I want to tell him I'm not leaving. But it wouldn't be the truth. I'm powerless to resist the thick dark of unconsciousness.

"Bella? Bella, I love you. I love you, baby. BellaI love…" I fade back into myself, I'd die soon anyway. Why not today? Goodbye, Mum. Good bye, Dad. Good bye, life…

A cold breeze on my face.  
A pure-white feather, floating on the wind.  
A bare tree, bleached bone-white in the sunlight.

05/05/05.

That date. I'm trapped in that date. Trapped, forever.

05/05/05.

Trapped.

**Did you cry? I did and I wrote it lol.**

**Cheerful I know, but hey. I like tragedies. **

**I heart you all**

**xxxxx**


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